James Chase: I'll Bury My Dead

He saw her face tighten with sudden fear, but before she could speak, he went on, “Is this your sitting room?” and he moved to a nearby door.

“It’s the lounge,” she said, her fear momentarily forgotten in the correction. She wouldn’t own a sitting room; it had to be a lounge.

He opened the door.

“Let’s go in here and sit down for a moment,” he said.

She went past him into a long, low-pitched room. The modern furniture was new and cheap-looking, but it made a brave show. He wondered what it would look like in two or three years’ time. It would probably have fallen to pieces by then, but people like Roy and Corrine wouldn’t be interested in anything permanent.

There was a dying fire in the grate, and he went over to it and stirred it with the poker, then he dropped a log onto it while she came and stood at his side.

In the hard light of the standard lamp, he noticed the rose-pink wrap was a little grubby at the collar and cuffs.

“I think we ought to wait until Roy comes in,” she said, lacing and unlacing her small, plump fingers. He could see she was desperately anxious to avoid any responsibility or to have to make any decision.

“It’s because of Roy that I’ve come,” he said quietly, and turned to look at her. “Sit down, please. I wish I could spare you this, but you’ve got to know sooner or later.”

“Oh!”

She sat down suddenly as if the strength had gone out of her legs, and her face went white under her careful makeup.

“Is—is he in trouble?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“No, he’s not in trouble. It’s worse than that.” He wanted to be brutal and tell her Roy was dead, but looking at the doll-like face, seeing the terror in the baby-blue eyes, the childish quivering of her lips, the sudden clenching of her fists, made it impossible for him to do more than hint at what had happened.

“Is he hurt?” She met his eyes and flinched back as if he had threatened to hit her. “He’s—not dead?”

“Yes, he’s dead,” English said. “I’m sorry, Corrine. I wish I hadn’t to tell you this. If there’s anything I can do…”

“Dead?” she repeated. “He can’t be dead!”

“Yes,” English said.

“But he can’t be dead!” she repeated, her voice going shrill. “You’re saying this to frighten me! You never did like me! Don’t pretend you did. How can he be dead?”

“He shot himself,” English said quietly.

She stared at him. He could see at once she believed that news. Her dolly little face seemed to fall to pieces. She dropped back against the settee, her hand across her eyes. The white column of her throat jerked spasmodically as she struggled with her tears.

He looked around the room, then crossed over to an elaborate cellarette that stood against the wall. He opened it and found an array of bottles and glasses; the bottles labelled with neat ivory tickets. He poured some brandy into a glass and went over to her.

“Drink this.”

He had to hold the glass to her lips, but she managed to get some of the brandy down before pushing his hand away.

“He shot himself?” she said, looking up at him.

He nodded.

“Have you anyone who will stay with you tonight?” he asked, not liking the dazed horror in her eyes. “You can’t be left here alone.”

“But I am alone now,” she said, and tears began to run down her face, smearing her makeup. “Oh, Roy! Roy! How could you do it? How could you leave me alone?”

It was the anguished cry of a child and it disturbed English. He put his hand gently on her shoulder, but she threw it off so violently that he stepped back, startled.

“Why did he shoot himself?” she demanded, looking up at him.

“Try to get it out of your mind for tonight,” he said soothingly. “Would you like me to send someone to you? My secretary…”

“I don’t want your secretary!” She got unsteadily to her feet. “And I don’t want you! You killed Roy! If you had been a proper brother to him, he would never have done this!”

He was so surprised by the suddenness of this attack, he remained motionless, staring at her.

“You and your money!” she went on, her voice strident. “That’s all you’ve ever thought about! You didn’t care what happened to Roy. You didn’t bother to find out how he was getting on! When he came to you for help, you threw him out! Now, you’ve forced him to kill himself. Well, I hope you’re satisfied! I hope you’re happy you’ve saved a few of your dirty dollars! Now, get out! Don’t ever come here again. I hate you!”

“You mustn’t talk like that,” English said quietly. “It’s quite untrue. If I had known Roy was in a jam, I would have helped him. I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t care, you mean!” she cried shrilly. “You haven’t spoken to him for six months. When he asked you for a loan you told him you weren’t giving him another dollar. Help him? Do you call that helping him?”

“I’ve been helping Roy ever since he left college,” English said, his voice hardening. “I thought it was high time he stood on his own feet. Did he expect me to keep him all his life?”

“Get out!” She stumbled to the door and threw it open. “Get out and stay out! And don’t try to offer me any of your dirty money, because I won’t take it! Now, get out!”

English lifted his heavy shoulders in a despairing shrug. He wanted to take this little doll and shake some sense into her, but he knew that shock and the realization that her own extravagance had been partly the cause of Roy’s death had turned her into this shrill fury, venting her conscience-stricken grief on him. He guessed that as soon as he had gone, she would collapse, and he was reluctant to leave her alone.

“Haven’t you someone…” he began, but she broke in, screaming, “Get out! Get out! I don’t want your filthy help or your sympathy! You’re worse than a murderer. Get out!”

He saw it was hopeless to do anything for her, and he went past her into the lobby. As he opened the front door, he heard her sobbing, and he glanced back. She had thrown herself face down on the settee, her head in her arms.

He shook his head, hesitated, then opened the door and walked down the path to the car.

IV

Lieutenant Morilli stood up as English came into his small office. A plain-clothes detective who was with him left the room, and Morilli swung a chair around and pushed it forward.

“Glad you looked in, Mr. English,” he said. “Sit down, won’t you?”

“Can I use your phone, Lieutenant?”

“Sure, go ahead. I’ll be back in five minutes. I want to get the ballistics report on the gun for you.”

English said, “Did your men clean up the office?”

“It’s all okay,” Morilli said as he made for the door.

“Thanks.”

When Morilli had closed the door after him, English called his own office.

Lois Marshall answered the phone.

“I want you to go to my brother’s office and look the place over,” English said. “Take Harry with you. Is it too late for you to go right away?” He glanced at his wristwatch. The time was a quarter after midnight. “It shouldn’t take you long. Get Harry to drive you home.”

“That’s all right, Mr. English,” Lois said. “What do you want me to do?”

“Take a look at the files. See if he kept any books, if he did, bring them to the office tomorrow morning. Get the atmosphere of the place. The atmosphere is more important than anything else. The business was supposed to be long established with a good connection when I bought it for him. He’s had it less than a year. I want to find out what went wrong.”

“I’ll take care of it, Mr. English.”

“Good girl. Sorry to ask you to work so late, but it’s urgent.”